


BioFortress Shock

by Lhostgil



Category: BioShock, Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe-Bioshock, Elements of Bioshock, Gen, Hence I guess I should say unethical sciences and drug abuse, I leave that to the readers to interpret it as they like, Medic slowly understanding what it means to be humanistic more or less., Mentions of WWII, Strained Friendships, but if you want to read them as a relationship its fine by me, constructive comments are much appreciated, first tf2 fanfic, longfic, no relationships - Freeform, slowfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhostgil/pseuds/Lhostgil
Summary: What if after the events of the Second Great War that was the result of senseless chaos over a rare mineral that appeared to give miraculous properties, someone decided to create an ideal society where only the best of every field may survive in--deserving of their credit and worth through a Laissez-faire society?A disgraced doctor on the run, an engineer who seeks to invent, and two others stripped of their identity turned into Protectors for reasons that could only be filled with deceit and betrayal...This is the story of several individuals, each having their own tale to tell as they survive through a dream that was turned into a nightmare out of the darker side of human nature.





	1. Prologue: The Beginning of All Things Terrible

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: First TF2 Fanfiction, it’s the mercs in the world of Bioshock 1 and 2 (aka Rapture) if TF Industries was under Saxton Hale and not the Administrator and right after WWII, decided to build Rapture for reasons that will be slowly shown as the story progresses. That said, I will not be bringing in any characters from the world of Bioshock; it will have elements of it, but it is definitely not the same thing or plot line. I will also not be typing in accents as I find it too troublesome and also irritating at times to read. This was inspired by fortresshock by louisdelacroix and TF2 Medic meets Bioshock by Redelice; both of which are artworks found on Deviantart.
> 
> Do leave a review if you think it is worth your while; I would like to improve on my writing and know what do people think of this attempt at a crossover.
> 
> Finally, I don’t own Bioshock or Team Fortress 2.

** Prologue **

**Early 1959, Medical Pavilion: Surgical Wing**

There was a strange calmness that came with planning to do something that would drastically change one’s own life. Perhaps it was the resignation, perhaps it was the fact that since everything was already going past the point of no return, may as well join in and fall to the depths. After all, there was no safety net to catch anyone in Rapture; there was nothing left to tie them to the world above and the city they lived in had started to decay from the inside. It was an irony that the “live and let live” system of life had caused nothing but suffering for a few groups of people, namely those that lived in the Pauper’s Drop and Apollo Square.

Dietrich; better known as Mr Ludwig, knew that it would have been a matter of time before his past would catch up with him. Or should he say, past actions since no one, save for his former sponsor and currently also the one who was out for his blood quite literally, knew about the entirety of his questionable history when even people he considered close enough to strike up a conversation with were only privy to a few secrets. It was funny how she was legally assumed dead when it was quite the open secret that she was in fact, very much alive and furious. Perhaps he should have taken into account that some people had poor self-control and were bound to use the fruits of his research as some recreational or performance enhancing drug. Granted, the city was built upon the foundations of pure capitalist ideals where any person could achieve their goals free from restrictions enforced above—morals, traditions, laws—human created nuisances that served to hinder and obstruct free progress.

‘To think I once believed that I could make some actual milestones that did not involve too much dirty work.’ The German derisively thought, allowing a small disgruntled sound to leave his body as he strode through the decrepit area that had fallen into disrepair. His eyes scanned over the debris and haphazardly strewn objects that had once made up a pristine surgical theatre and laboratory.

In spite of the obvious deterioration and decay that had started to set in, it was clear that this place was once a stark contrast to its current state; clean, bright and almost welcoming, or just about as welcoming as a place for medical practice could be—enough to reassure customers that nothing but the best professional practice was carried out here, but enough to remind them that this was not a playground or a place to come to for relaxation.

Part of the doctor wondered if he would have done anything different if given a choice to turn back time and alter his decisions. He would not have entered this underwater paradise that was rapidly turning into hell that rivalled the madness that he had a hand in, but he would still be on the run with his research on his other project—started in his university years and completed to a certain extent during the years of the Second World War, it was his most closely guarded secret after his own history—that surprisingly, was never caught on by anyone, even someone as powerful and controlling as her. Then again, given that he did discover ADAM and the surrounding events that happened soon after were an effective screen to keep his activities hidden under as long as he was careful in manipulating things in his favour.

He looked at his reflection in the glass and simply let out a sigh. While there were minimal changes to his appearance over the years, he knew the exact small differences that had taken place; as much as the formula that he created served to stabilise his condition and also counter the effects of having an ADAM slug being symbiotically fused to his body, the former physician could see the streaks of yellow in the irises of his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks, dark eye circles that gave him a haunted look, and how his skin had started to take on a more corpse-like tinge. The latter three traits he could accept more or less, but the first he hated—it reminded him of his failure and the consequences of his actions, but above all, it reminded him as to why he was still stuck in the middle of the North Atlantic, many leagues under the surface world.

It also did not help that when he was pushed to any heightened emotional state, his eyes would glow in the dark like those ‘gatherers’ he indirectly helped to create.

The middle aged man felt a frown creep up his face and he turned away from the reflection and made quick, silent strides towards the bulkhead door that he had used to enter into the area. There was a reason why he preferred to stay away from mirrors unless he was trying to keep his appearance presentable; mirrors only showed the reality that was in front of them, but perceptions from the one viewing the subject matter would distort the truth before them with their bias and interpretation of fact.

Now, if only he could find a protector as easily as he fell into the less than optimistic thoughts that brooded in his mind; someone who could watch his back as he made quick exploratory rounds of the city from his former workplace which he had converted into a laboratory since the other clinic that he used to work from had been overrun by whatever was left of the deranged population that called Rapture home. The man had surmised that those poor unfortunate souls had believed that he would have more of that accursed drug that had caused their addiction and more of those plasmids that served to drive that addiction into their ruin. Sadly, he had nothing to offer them besides a number of corpses, active turrets, and a few security bots for their trouble—the German had considered the risk of setting up business in such an area, but the need for more research and the more than guaranteed return of more test subjects had eventually been the tipping point that caused him to act on that train of thought.

It had been fruitful and reaped benefits beyond his own expectations—there was a large crowd of people who wanted and needed medical help, and he had an endless supply of test subjects for whatever experiment or fulfil any curiosity that struck his fancy at the moment. Nevertheless, with every positive outcome came the opposing force that had to balance it out: he lost the closest person he considered a friend and trusted wall that would shield him from any physical threat.

Someone who had travelled with him from the world they had once lived above and had their own respective stories before crossing paths in the madness that was the result of human folly, ambition, greed and predisposition to destroy each other.

He had never cared for human interaction, his childhood was unremarkable—he preferred to stay inside the house than run around and horse around with others his age—and the most he could recall of his schooling years was choosing to indulge in the silent world of books and the knowledge they provided, and surviving the Second World War as a medic had saw to his final nail in the coffin as far as building any sort of meaningful social interaction with people or making friends. People came and went in his life, and he was content to simply work with or if it ever came down to such a point; outlive them.

War was a vile thing, it always had been and would always be something that brought out the worst in people. The medical practitioner was not about to deny that it was horrific as he had taken part in and lived and breathed it years ago. His hands, while stained with blood not from holding a weapon that would take away the lives of others, were stained with blood from utilising tools meant to heal. It was with bitter irony that the doctor considered himself far more unforgivable than the ones who picked up arms and charged across the frontlines to kill fellow human beings. However, he would not ignore the fact that war; unpleasant as it was, also brought out the best in people. After all, was it not because of the war that he managed to prove that his thesis had been near perfect? Was it not because of the war that he had managed to gain so much more knowledge than he could have hoped for in times of peace?

Was it not because of the war that he found another human being that he could trust with his life and call, ‘comrade’?

All the complicated questions and ramifications of war and his thoughts on it aside; Hippocrates did state that “war is the only proper school of the surgeon” and the doctor was content to accept that as his own simple answer to a question that had reasonable arguments on both sides.

Begrudgingly, Dietrich had to admit that since the loss of his companion, he had slipped into a more morose and taciturn state. Not that he despised his current and sole source of human interaction now—Dell Cognaher, or more affectionately as he liked to be addressed, ‘Engineer’—was welcome company. Of course, there was the little ‘fire devil’ that tailed along with the brilliant inventor, but aside from the muffled mumbling that came from the suit that covered its entire being, there was nothing much to be said. Then again, taking into consideration that any other form of companionship would be between corpses, or citizens who had gone insane from prolonged ADAM abuse, or “gatherers” and their guardians who were more shadows of their past human selves than actual humans…He did not have much of a choice in that matter.

Their meeting was not a chance one, unlike how he had first met his first human friend; if the man could even be considered one as it was built on the foundations of a doctor who was fleeing for his life from the opposing side of the war and so happened to save a wounded civilian—the civilian turning out to be the sibling of a former gulag prisoner that had orchestrated a mass breakout and was responsible for the deaths of all its prison guards. War was unkind, along with fate; the subsequent events caused the ragtag team of three to dwindle to two and from there, the said two left for Rapture with nothing left to tie them to the world above.

On the bright side, not every meeting he had with confidants were as depressing as the first, he had met Herr Cognaher when they were partnered to build the vita-chamber and develop the research camera; while they did not necessarily get along at first due to conflicting personalities and disciplines in their field of expertise, they did form a semblance of rapport based on their love for the sciences and discovery of something new that could potentially change the world as they knew it to be.

Now, the doctor—or as Dell Cognaher had taken to calling him, Medic—was working along with the man. Partly due to the ongoing chaos and the need to have someone who could keep them from dying as first aid kits were becoming few and far between them, and using the prime health units required money as illogical as it was considering the current state of affairs; but more importantly, the Texan had been the one who had designed Rapture’s security systems. It would be idiotic to try and attempt to hack machinery by himself when the man who designed them could very easily bypass their commands in seconds. Furthermore, together as a team, they could combine both their brainpower to achieve much more than as individuals.

On that subject, the German had to get back to the two people he had allied with—as much as he had come out of their temporary base of sorts with the intention to search for a possible protector, he knew better than to stay out too long in the open. While he could defend himself reasonably with the large wrist mounted needle that was longer than his arm, the doctor was not a fighter. Hell, he did not arm himself in the Second Great War aside from a standard luger and his bone saw, the latter of which he would admit was used more for killing than actually saving someone’s life by performing an emergency amputation. In his own defence, it was unfair and unjustified to kill a combat medic; surely, the white band with a red cross on it was more than enough to act as a scream that he was considered a non-combatant and not supposed to be shot at or attacked.

Except that humans, in addition to being incapable of adhering to rules and regulations, were equally incapable of comprehending simple symbols and what they stood for.

It was the slight scraping of metal on metal that snapped him out of his small internal rant, a sound that he had come to associate with a certain variant of splicers; the most deranged, dangerous and possibly, most evolved of Rapture’s citizens from ADAM abuse and uncontrolled usage of plasmids in the ongoing civil war that had torn the city apart. He stood still and forced himself to train his ears on the source of the harsh metallic screech; as much as he could easily heal from any sort of injury, he preferred to return in one piece and without the fussing that his colleague tended to launch into on realising that he had gotten into some form of trouble one way or the other.

The hallway he had been travelling it was now eerily silent, even with the place being devoid of any semblance of life and normality, it was too quiet. A place should never be so silent that one's breath sounded like harsh rasps of air and their own heartbeats like pounding drums in their ears. However, here the doctor was experiencing all of those things that were so wrong in normal society and life. However, all form of normalcy had left had it not?

Maybe, just maybe, he would for once concede that he should have left behind everything in Rapture and returned to the surface world before things had reached the point of no return.

There was a loud crash, not enough to be considered deafening and leave him in a state of shock, but enough to have the German bolting to close the distance between him and the exit he had been heading towards. Since when was the gottverdamnt door ever that far away? A scowl twisting itself onto his lips, the doctor found himself letting slip a string of curses that included a family tree between a man and a baboon, as well as several instances of medical malpractice that would have left a hardened person cleaning out the mental images in their mind for a good while.

He let out a much needed breath once he made it past the bulkhead that had stood between him and the glass tunnel that led to the rest of the hospital building; making a mental note to mark the surgical wing of the medical pavilion as another place that now had a heavily spliced citizen roaming its mostly abandoned halls. The medical practicioner belatedly realised that he had been holding in his own breath since being made aware of the drug addled citizen skulking around the place he was searching through earlier; another thing to note about his physiological change since his own self surgery to implant the ADAM slug into his body, the German realised that the limits of his own body had reached the point of being near invulnerable. A feature, that he had managed to achieve albeit temporarily with his other formula prior the discovery of the accursed drug that now ran the wheels of a fallen society.

Just as how the world above was run along the wheels of a handful of people who would stop at nothing to get their grubby hands on Australium.

His mind told him to be on his guard, whether out of residual instinct as a field medic or the fact that said instinct played a large role in his survival throughout major happenings in his life, the doctor took much more caution as he navigated the once familiar place where he took up employment when he first entered the underwater city. Most of the facilities had since been switched to those aimed at cosmetic surgery rather than treating illness of any sort—an unintended side effect of ADAM being made readily available to the public—it was frustrating for him to say the least. Patients; test subjects did not come by as readily as they once did, and while wealth was not an issue for a person such as himself, it was the thrill of discovery and the process of learning that had drawn him to Rapture. Having the very reason as to why he even set foot into the city removed from him only added on to his many greivances and lack of motivation to conduct new experiments in furtherance of any hypothesis that struck his mind as he went about life in a simple, monotonous fashion.

Or as monotonous as he found it to be when living in the lap of luxury as a prominent figure who to most ordinary people, had attained success and was living the Rapture dream. After all, he was Dr Ludwig; in the eyes of the common public, "the doctor, scientist and researcher who had made a name for himself through the sweat of his brow and being unafraid to tread into uncharted territory alone to achieve his goals." When in truth, it did not matter if he was counted amongst the elite; he never took part in any of the social events hosted by any of his equally well to do neighbours who were masters of their respective fields, he was either at the Mendel Memorial Research Library or at his own laboratory in Artemis Suites. In his mind, as long as he could conduct his experiments, as long as he continued to have the freedom and power to work free from any restriction, Dietrich would not give a damn about his surroundings. He had pulled off more impressive feats before and that was when he was on the frontlines trying to be creative with the still warm corpses and body parts strewn about for the crows and worms to claim.

That did not mean that he closed himself off from his neighbours entirely; the physician could easily maintain small talk and exchange pleasantries, it was merely a question of what could he get out of a conversation. He could also school his face into any expression he wished to convey the message he wished to bring across to his fellow conversation partner—often leading to the misconception that he was a very animated and sociable person. Did they not know that the best way to hide secrets was to be as seemingly open as much as possible; the more people tried to bury their secrets under a mask, the more easily they would be discovered. Was he always such a cynic and manipulative man?

Arguably, the answer was no; if anything, the fact that he was part of the Central Council had twisted his ability to manoeuvre through social situations despite his lacklustre attitude to building interpersonal relationships. Besides, someone had to be the more devious person in the duo that was he and his friend in the later years of the Second World War to survive and eventually attract the right attention to be scouted for a project like Rapture.

Those years were the most stressful and yet also the years he missed most in his life at this moment. However, he did pick up a few useful skills that increased his chances for survival.

Like how he did not miss the shadow darting off into the darkness and how that shadow came with the sickeningly familiar sound of crackling plaster that he came to associate with trouble. Or the fact that there was loud, deranged laughter and screeching about being evicted from their home within a ten metre radius. The latter he hoped was two splicers fighting between themselves and that they would both kill themselves in the process or at least leave one standing in a condition to be easily picked off. The first he could recognise as the same type that he had ran away from in the surgical wing; if it was the same one, he would have to hand it to the drug addict for being persistent as well as retaining sufficient intelligence to tail behind him without raising any suspicion to this point.

If he was careful, and if anything that remotely resembled fortune still existed in the city was on his side, the physician was certain that he could avoid any unnecessary confrontation and be on his merry way. However, it appeared that today was just not his day as before he could ready himself for any sudden change in circumstance, there was a thud that jolted him and had him stepping onto a puddle which caused him to slip and fall to the cold, tiled floor.

“ _I'm gonna show ya what it's like to look different!_ " The horrifically disfigured and delusional splicer shrieked, holding up a red-hot hook in his hand, ready to strike. Had it not been the fact that the man was so far gone and was threatening him with violence, the doctor would have found it in himself to feel some pity and horror at the physical deformations that ADAM abuse could cause.

Either way; pity or not, the German decided that he did not want to stay around to allow the irrational and drug addled fool who looked ready to disfigure or gut him like a fish with the cruel-looking hook in the latter’s grasp and promptly responded by stabbing the psychotic addict with the huge hypodermic syringe mounted to his right wrist, before flinging the body as far away as possible from him. As a doctor, he learnt in his mind that he was to care for anyone who required his assistance, be it friend or foe. As a human, he accepted in his heart that unless he saved himself by all means necessary, he would not be able to lend his assistance to those who needed it.

Getting up to his feet; the fact that he could hear the incoming approach of the two splicers he was aware of prior his skirmish with the shell of a human who had threatened him served as a grim reminder that he was not alone and would soon find unwelcome company. The syringe he equipped was a decent weapon, but for all its intents and purposes, remained as a tool for draining out the ADAM rich blood of the corpses that littered the city whilst the civil war raged on—if Dietrich was going to find a way to fully cure the negative effects of the drug, he was going to need large amounts of samples and specimens to work on; crazed test subjects that were more likely to kill him than stay still were out of the question. But, there was no one stopping him from draining out the blood of those bodies that were lying around or simply flowing in a wasted sack of flesh, tissue and organs that were the splicers roaming around like mindless slaves to the drug produced by a sea slug.

He should have asked his colleague for a security bot or two before leaving; it was not as if Dell was such a selfish person that he would deny the doctor any of his creations, if anything it was the reverse. Admittedly, it was more of Dietrich’s own aversion to using the machines—while they did provide substantial cover and could help tilt any confrontation in his favour with their added gunfire, they were noisy and bound to give away his position with their whirring. Furthermore, it never escaped the physician’s notice that the mechanic expert was often particularly upset when the doctor failed to return the machines in less than pristine condition. A reaction, that made the German wonder how did the Texan manage to rise up the ranks of Rapture—it was true that neither of them were saints or near humanistic as far as their fellow peers were concerned, but Cognaher had a genuine friendly streak that was few and far between most in the city.

Regrets and second thoughts aside, the doctor reminded himself that engaging in buyer’s remorse was no better than indulging self-pity; ultimately useless and a waste of time and effort, there were so many things he could do with the energy that could be spent on emotions and nostalgia. Energy, that he would gladly sell his soul for now as he ran for all that his life was worth from three very livid splicers; the one he had stabbed and flung earlier much more furious than before and very much alive, the other two having stopped their brawl and choosing to come after the source of the commotion in hopes of possibly getting more ADAM—Dietrich had no idea as to how the logic of the citizens worked, but given their insanity he supposed it was something to be left untouched even if he was extremely curious about it.

In the end it was a slippery step and a well-aimed bullet to his leg that had him tumbling down the stairs he was attempting to climb; teeth gritted from the white hot pain which gave way to a dull ache, glowing yellow eyes squinted at the gradually closing wound that had been an ugly growing splotch of crimson. ADAM and his own healing formula had given him unnatural fast regeneration from all physical wounds, but it did not remove the foreign body that was lodged in his flesh or remove the sensation of pain. Those two were minor inconveniences that he had come to accept as part of his own physiological dependence on both drugs; ADAM to give him the unnatural properties of the drug and allow his tests to go on uninterrupted as he did not have to scavenge for the material like one of the splicers, his own formula to counter the cellular instability and ensure that most, if not all of his original genetic material was left untouched by ADAM.

What he hated most was that his body responded the same way any normal body would after a gunshot wound; the limb would remain useless as if it was still wounded until his brain comprehended the fact that it was healed and capable of function—all he could do now was attempt to inch away pathetically as the three maniacs advanced towards him menacingly. The doctor felt his heart thud against his ribcage, feeling blood thrum through his ears—if this was how he was going to meet his end, he was never going to rest in peace. No, there was too much at stake, too much that he had put in during his time in a godforsaken place like Rapture, and he would be damned before he had all his outstanding ties with the city settled.

A scream left his throat, the cry a piercing sound of fear than that of pain; a hook had torn a nasty gash into his arm, courtesy of the scarred and mutilated splicer he had stabbed just a while ago. Dietrich had scrabbled right into a wall, having not turned back to see where was he going as he was dragging his leg that still refused to respond to any command from his brain. The doctor did not have to look at his arm to see that the gaping wound was knitting itself shut, he could feel the flesh closing up with each passing second; leaving behind newly repaired skin and muscle over once exposed bone. He noted detachedly that the same could not be said for his other injuries that were starting to appear at an alarming rate.

Darkness closed in on the edges of his vision, it would not be long now that the rate of his injuries would catch up with the rate of his self-healing, and for once, he found himself truly filled with envy for the pitiful gatherers that had been the side product of some other scientist’s research that stemmed from his discovery of ADAM. At least, they had their protectors to watch over them and even mourn their passing if they fell victim to an attack. The physician waited for the final blow to arrive, his mind had dully noted that in the midst of the battering he was under, the splicers had realised that he was similar to the gatherers that they enjoyed to target—just without one of those enslaved guardians that were bound to them. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids, the skin felt as if there was a weight attached to them, threatening to close his eyes and lull him to sleep.

Instead, it appeared that he was at the mercy of fortune as a loud roar and thud stopped him from sliding down to the floor—the noise having disrupted him out of his stupor and forced his eyes to open and watch whatever was going on.

To say that he was surprised would be an understatement in itself, Dietrich could not help but stare with wide eyes at the sight before him.

With the speed of a snail, his mind sluggishly recalled that he had once wondered why did the gatherers call their less than gentle giant guardians “knights”; at least he could now see for himself first hand, the answer to his previous musings. The physician could not help but observe that this model of the Protector was unusual—granted there were many models of these abominable ghouls that had been once human and turned into something less than what they were for some crime over the other in the Penal Colony, but the only ones he saw either had a huge drill or rivet gun attached to their suits due to the simple fact that they were originally meant to repair and maintain the city from outside in the highly pressurised water before being trained to be what they were known for now. For starters, this Protector had a weapon that was reminiscent of a Gatling gun, however its design looked sickeningly familiar—one of Dell’s designs? Surely, not, the Texan was not involved in gun design of that sort.

Nonetheless, the way how the firearm functioned stirred memories in his head, most of which leading to conclusions that he hastily shoved away in the furthest regions of his mental world. The lumbering figure of the Protector loomed over him, having disposed of the attackers in its own brutally efficient and effective way. It stared down at his slowly healing body, the viewing pane of the helmet having a yellow glow, not too unlike the German’s eyes a short while ago when he had been in an elevated emotional state.

When he made no move to acknowledge the being in front of him, it held out a hand; a gentle gesture offering support amongst the ruins of a devastated city. In Dietrich’s mind however, it was another thing altogether: as if he was transported to a wholly different time, the world around him melted into the cruel flashes of a distant war that was long over, and a single sentence that was all too familiar rang in his ears.

_“We go together, Doctor.”_


	2. Kapitel 1: Into the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There are mentions of WWII in this chapter, that much I will forewarn, but I would like to leave this quote here before anyone misunderstands: "You... work with Nazis even though you do not follow their ideology?" That is the kind of person Medic is in this fic; in fact, his role here is much like Tennenbaum and Yi Suchong (from Bioshock) combined.
> 
> That said, I wish to say thank you for the kudos and hope that those reading this will enjoy this chapter. Also, feel free to leave a comment or anything that you feel should be addressed about the fic and can further improve it as a whole.

**_“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”_ **

**1946, Unknown date, Lighthouse**

Cold, tired gunmetal blue eyes peered through the circular lenses that rested on the bridge of the man’s nose; one would have thought that he was from a respectable profession, given his attire and overall demeanour. Not someone who was wanted and engaged in illegal or morally dubious activities—granted that there was a harsh edge to the elegant and handsome features that had attracted more than its fair share of trouble. For the most part, the German preferred to be considered someone who had a lack of moral inhibitions than someone who was suffering from insanity; rules, laws, ethics, they were all created on the basis of what is socially acceptable in human society than on a more neutral standpoint.

An envelope was held tightly in his hand; the other clutched a leather briefcase that was marked with scuffs and cracks on its otherwise durable exterior. Over the course of the last few years, the poor case had been through abuse that was not befitting of its long service to the doctor that used it—almost like a faithful companion, the dispatch case had followed him through most of his life. To the ordinary eye, the satchel was an ordinary piece of baggage like any other, most likely filled with spare clothes, dried food—in essence, basic items that were needed for travel.

Not jars of solution or hypodermic needles of questionable size and purpose, or notebooks that detailed experiments and theories which would have any decent human being burning their contents out of a mixture of horror and disgust.

He slowly exhaled through his nose; it would not be long till he was free from the shackles that tethered him to the world that he had come to despise along with his few but invaluable possessions, as well as his only human companion who functioned as both a bodyguard and test subject.

The man had never been one to believe in religion or any doctrine of predestination, in his mind everything simply followed a chain called causality. Therefore, it had never weighed upon his mind when he conducted himself as a person who showed no mercy or had a cruel streak unbecoming of the title he earned through his own sweat and blood—in fact, he could not care less for the pieces of paper that endorsed his qualifications and skill; besides, most of his patients did not care if he had any official approval: if one was about to die in minutes from injuries caused by illegal activity and the only person who could possibly prevent their demise was a back alley doctor with a reputation for performing ‘miracles’, who cared if the medical practicioner had something as trivial as a license.

In any case, even if he still had his license, the doctor doubted that he would have found any legitimate work whether in his home country or in another nation; given his accent, nationality and background—as well as the circumstances of the current times—no one would hire him or allow him to practice his profession even if he did possess the skill and knowledge that surpassed others.

Cruel, but that was the world and humanity in general; people would never look past the ugliness of things to remember and appreciate the beauty within, just like how children would fear and despise needles due to the pain associated with a vaccination when that pain could have been better related to something that would save them needless trouble over certain sicknesses. It always seemed like the majority could not accept that some answers were impossible to present in any manner aside from a chiaroscuro of both ends of the spectrum and it was frustrating, even amongst his peers or like-minded confederates who were most likely six feet in the ground now; the German could never really find someone he could identify with.

That was inclusive of the time he was reassigned to the less than pleasant side of the war at home, and he was free to exercise his faculties as he wished with minimal interference provided that he kept in line with the ridiculous political dogma and ideology of the nation. The latter of which the doctor and former field medic—now scientist—personally could not be bothered with even if he was threatened with death.

What he was interested in was not the boring eugenics that everyone else was obsessed with currently. It was how certain traits could set people apart so greatly due to abilities granted to them in their genetic code, how those traits could be given or taken away by manipulating things on the molecular level, and the many possibilities that came with altering a persons’ genetic make-up that truly appealed to the man. However, with all the enthusiasm for those areas of study also came preoccupation for the reverse; could he possibly create something that could grant others temporary abilities by stimulating the correct receptors on a cellular level rather than having to delve too deep into something that was possibly irreversible?

At the present time, he could deem the inquiry of targeting selected receptors on a cellular level to grant temporary physiological power that was otherwise only available if the person had Australium on hand; the formula that he had theorised and created a prototype serum of in his university days in Berlin was finally perfected after much experimentation, what amazed him was that all of it had gone under the noses of those twerps he had to work with. Either they did not realise that the people that were sent to him often ended up leaving his work area in a much better state than they were when they first entered, or, the fact that the often unnecessary incessant screaming was out of alarm and possibly outrage as he idly recounted tales of his time on the frontlines and prodded them with needles whilst they remained restrained were more than enough to have no one question his activities.

Regardless, as far as Dietrich von Ludwig was concerned, he was still an enemy of the state if they had already discovered that the body was not his but someone else’s who he used to falsify his own death. He had upped and left without much thought or notice, choosing to flee once he caught wind of any news that his license was to be revoked on grounds of him being a traitor and assisting the enemy; when in fact it was more along the lines of the unintended side effect of his experimental drugs proved to be assisting in healing than killing. Someone had to do some actual science that would truly be beneficial to humanity; if the state wanted glorified butchers, the doctor would rather still be in the Wehrmacht with people he could at least try to pity for having been tossed into a war that was, in his own personal opinion, stupid and a waste of valuable resources. At least, when he was on the field, he did not have to pretend that he was fully indoctrinated in some belief; he was free to be inventive with the parts flying around him and most importantly, he was never questioned or made to write official reports on his progress.

As much as he was grateful for not having to work whilst bullets flew past him from multiple directions, the doctor missed the one thing he took for granted.

Freedom.

A simple word. A word that carried so much meaning and weight, a word that had been the justification for many lives to be lost, for wars to be waged or the common people to overthrow age old systems of government. The medical practitioner was no philosopher or historian, but he had made a number of acquaintances and associates from the other disciplines in the university; most of them he had tried to save from some grievous injury or could only watch as they fell victim to bullets or shrapnel that reduced young lives into shredded, charred, ribbons of flesh and bone. Strange, how people who could be so full of life and ready to graduate with dreams of their own to change the world or be a pioneer in their respective fields would meet their end on enemy soil, dying unremembered and lost in history as another casualty of war that went badly due to a multitude of reasons.

For most part, he blamed his last ‘patient’—subject would not fit the man; the American made even the most deluded of men seem sane— for the whole reason as to why he had to disappear from his own country at the time. A loud and foulmouthed soldier who just had to escape in the most conspicuous manner possible; if it had been a quiet escape, the German would have felt a slight obligation to consider forgiving the prisoner. In that case, no one living soul would have been any wiser and no unwanted attention would have been drawn to the last person who interacted with him.

On hindsight, it was also probably why no one had listed him as a criminal after the war; unless that was yet to be seen, given that he was guilty of affiliation if anything was to hold him accountable for his actions in the past.

Either way, it was the newly recruited doctor who had decided to test a new batch of the serum he developed in hopes of creating a formula that would revolutionise how field medics were to carry out their duties on the field—by extension, making killing enemy units far more efficient as there would be fewer wounded to tend to, and those that were injured could quickly return to their posts—who had to flee for his life while armed with nothing but a standard issue pistol and bone saw to what most would consider certain death.

Except that fate took pity on him, out of kindness for the events that had transpired or out of amusement to see him suffer; it was in the cold, bitter and harsh winter of Russia that he found a companion that gave him a sense of security, even now he had to admit that he had gotten used to the presence of the other human and found familiarity in it.

Said person was currently standing next to him, a tall, imposing figure of strength and solidarity, the Russian had a faint smile on his face, pale azure eyes fixated on the stormy sea that would soon be as close to home as any of the passengers on board the vessel along with them. The disgraced physician could only guess what was in the other man’s mind; unlike many who he came across, Mikhail was an enigma beyond his comprehension. For starters, there were many instances where the giant of a man could have easily left him at the mercy of those the doctor had trespassed or, to begin with, decided to go on his own separate way after the war ended.

However, not being one to pry or question another being too much, the German took the man’s companionship as it was, an ongoing mutual partnership for survival that had started during the later years of the war. Prior to receiving the invitation to join others in the endeavour to the depths of the sea, he had supported their financial needs with the work he had, and the hulking wall of muscle would deter would be thugs who thought that the bespectacled doctor was easy prey. Of course, the letter had only requested for the presence of one of the two, but arrangements were made; taking in to account all that the both of them had gone through, it had only felt right to Dietrich to bring the other with him. After all, debts had to be repaid in kind; even if he had questionable scruples, he was still human and had an obligation to at the very least, ensure that the both of them could survive during these uncertain times.

“I never thought I would be going back to living underwater again.”

The speaker was a tall, lanky man with a tanned complexion that suggested time spent outdoors in a harsh environment. His voice had a strange accent; stereotypical Australian, but there was a slight difference which threw him off—possibly a case of nature versus nurture where a person grew up in their home country but spent most of their youth abroad long enough to cause changes in their pronunciation and such. Dietrich frowned thoughtfully, unsure if the sentence was an attempt at conversation or simply a thought spoken aloud. For most part, the doctor wondered if the stranger was one of those who believed in the mysterious nation of New Zealand. Actually, who was he to question the truth in those tales—were they all not going to do the same in a few moments, vanish from the face of the earth and into the deep dark depths of the ocean.

A tense silence filled the air, at which point the doctor, with his poor sense of social interaction, knew that the stranger was expecting a response to the statement. Thankfully, Mikhail had also overheard it and answered the man; a Mr Lawrence Mundy, the architect of Rapture and oddly enough just as he had suspected earlier about nature against nurture; a native of New Zealand who spent a long time in the Australian outback. Apparently, the fact that hailing from the secretive land which was indeed submerged into the bottom of the ocean was not the only surprising piece of information to trickle into the doctor’s ears—the draughtsman had spent a duration of time in the wilderness of the outback away from civilization, learning how to survive alone and picked up sniping as a skill.

As much as eavesdropping; or as the physician preferred to consider it as a form of observation, was taken as offensive and intrusive behaviour unbecoming of a person, it was a skill that Dietrich took pride in. One could learn many things simply by listening to mindless chatter, be it about a person or the mundane motions of the world beyond his control. Information was power as was knowledge in the many fields of study that most only felt keen and wanted to be an expert in a small part of it. Much like how people were more interested in their respective roles in a play than the whole show itself.

It was a comment that was aimed at Dietrich which drew the doctor to take part in the ongoing conversation between the two men; a well meant remark that pricked him unpleasantly, he felt his brow furrow and face rearrange itself into his signature squint of annoyance.

“The doc seems pretty quiet, doesn’t he? Bit shy or just a man of a few words?”

“I am not shy, I just find no reason to expend my energy on small talk, my friend.” The German kept the tone of his voice to one that was almost affable to be dismissed as banter, well aware that most found his accent to be thick and grating—or as someone once told him, ‘like an instrument that had been left unused and neglected’, which of course led to that very patient suffering through a needlessly painful procedure—a curse to him, as he was turned away from any remotely respectable place the moment he opened up his mouth to speak.

There was an uncomfortable silence as two pairs of eyes turned to face the previously silent man, one hid an amused smile in their eyes, almost like a proud parent who finally saw their rebellious child learn how to behave appropriately in public; there was a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of the man’s lips, as if he was struggling to keep laughter down—while the other displayed mild surprise and clear lack of contriteness on having been called out on his opinion. It was also only now that the doctor noticed that the latter was dressed in a rather casual manner, simple when compared to the rest of the passengers on board, and for lack of a better word to describe the architect’s clothes—bumpkinish.

It did not help that the aviators that strange Australian—Dietrich had overheard that Herr Mundy preferred to be considered a citizen of the place that he spent most of his time in, and in his words, “got so used to staying in the land for so long, it was more home to him than where he was born”—wore even when the man was currently heading to the bottom of the deep abyss made him stand out like a sore thumb.

“Good to see that you aren’t mute, mate.” Came the blithe response, the tone informal and much more relaxed than before when the man had tried to strike up a chat. The man, Lawrence; appeared to be rather smug in a cool, aloof manner—as if he was a cat who had just gotten what it had set its eyes on—the expression was not too far off from a person having achieved some small personal victory. Dietrich could not help but silently wonder if the man had made that jibe to elicit a reaction out of him; recently met stranger or not, the German had been through school and had his fair share of classmates trying to force any sort of feedback from him—in a simple word, bullying.

“I prefer selectively reticent, my friend.” Patting his sleeves down as if he had dust on his clothes, the tone of his voice was offhanded, close to taking a turn towards sarcasm. “Besides, I am intrigued about what you said earlier,” the bespectacled man paused, taking a moment to allow a small smirk to find its way to his lips, “that someone like you who seems to enjoy living on land more than at the bottom of the ocean has for one reason over the other decided to return to your roots and take up residence in deep once more.”

Neither of them missed the dangerous glint behind the tinted glasses of the eccentric architect, the same man who, also gained enjoyment out of shooting down targets from afar and preferred being under the wide expense of the starry night sky alone in the wilderness than in the company of humans—if the man’s friendliness had been a mask to test waters out, then that mask was starting to slide down and show a less than pleasant side of himself.

Had Mikhail not let out a laugh, the tension that was palpable between the three of them would not have dissipated as it did. The sound itself was warm, hearty like fire in a hearth when one was surrounded by the darkness of night or the biting chill of harsh winter. “Both men are equally strong in one area that I cannot help but appreciate," the Russian smiled, sincerity and mirth shining in his eyes while his fellow conversation partners shared a glance that was between distrustful and judgemental. "To me," he continued slowly, taking care to choose the right words, lest they caused unwanted agitation, "the two of you excel at paying attention to details that others might miss and act on them to stay ahead. That is a good thing, because that way neither of you would foolishly charge in without having fully considered the possible consequences."

'Trust Mikhail to actually play the mediator.' The small voice of malice whispered into Dietrich's ear; a small part of the doctor had wished to see the conversation go down a road that was deplorable to those who did not enjoy verbal sparring, there was always fun in constructing and deconstructing points of view in his opinion. It was an art and acted as a filtering mechanism so that he would know who to look for when he needed assistance on certain matters; better to consult a person on their expertise than weakness, therefore saving time and frustration.

However, he also knew that the action taken by the lumbering man, who was by all accounts, protective and benign in nature until faced with a threat, was in the best interest of them both. If not, more so for his associate whose idea of friendship extended towards either a symbiotic relationship founded on a common need for reliance between two organisms or a dysfunctional partnership built upon a common goal that had to be fulfilled so that each respective person would be able to achieve their individual targets. After all, Mikhail was much smarter than he often let others on; prior his time being imprisoned, he had a degree in Russian literature in the University of Moscow.

"I guess that is true," rueful words of concession left the draughtsman's mouth; it was no apology, but a gesture at attempting to placate the situation before it turned ugly.

Dietrich was not one to give up on a potential fight if only to see the possible outcome and repercussions that would follow suit--it was his inherent nature to study and observe as it was for the sun to rise from the east and set in the west. However, he accepted that it was most likely not worth the time or the effort in this case; a time and place for everything, just because he stumbled across a cause for behaviour to be triggered, it did not mean that he had to act on every time it appeared. Ultimately, given that making the choice to go down to the underwater city was a one-way trip, there would be more and better opportunities for the both of them to dispute between themselves.

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**1959, Medical Pavilion Atrium**

Someone once told Dietrich that the creation of monsters was inevitable, if people did not have enemies or things they considered a threat to their needs, they would then create one so as to form justification for their actions. As for the enemies that they had created, it was in their nature to want to destroy their makers; quid pro quo, as some would say. There were few things that could truly make the German feel as if his blood had gone cold in his veins, but right now, he felt frozen to the bone. As though his mind and all form of rational thought had fled his body, the doctor could only stare at the protector model mutely. Words failed to form proper sentences in his head and he felt like a helpless child; he could not see past the helmet, but deep inside in his own gut, he knew the face behind the armour.

His suspicions were further confirmed when he glanced at the towering creature’s choice of weapon; now much closer to him, the medical professional could further scrutinise the details of the powerful firearm and finally remembered with a sense of growing horror as to why he found it familiar. The man himself and seen it before, or at the very least, had the opportunity to examine its schematics. From the dread filled head that had a single word of denial screaming in a continuous loop, Dietrich faintly recalled a ghost of a conversation he had during the early stages of his societal discovery. In the past, it would have brought a bitter smile to his thin lips that had been hardened by the stresses of life. Right now, it was a taunt, a mockery of his failure as a human—if he could even be considered a human for all moral and ethical purposes at this point, given all the things he had sacrificed at the altar of scientific discovery.

_‘You never told me that you were proficient in the area of weapon design.’_

_‘It was not necessary, but now that I am here with doctor, I should employ my other talents and help out with the funding for research. In any case, working with Dell is interesting; doctor can work without being worried that I have nothing to do.’_

Mikhail was a student of literature; by all definitions, a person who was far from an arms manufacturer. However, like a shining example of glaring contrasts, the Russian was in his own right, a heavy weapons specialist and more than capable of coming up with new and inventive ways of creating tools of massive destruction for defense and security purposes. During his time in Rapture, he had partnered up their amiable Texan neighbour to produce a number of security mechanisms around the city. In fact, it was through that acquaintanceship that Dietrich had the chance to interact with the avant-garde inventor and mechanical tinkerer--resulting in many inventive products that was a merge of both their specialities of science.

In any case, unlike the Teutonic man of medicine whom he had followed to Rapture, he had a moral compass; however much or little he made use of it was influenced by the circumstances surrounding him and those he cared for in his heart. Despite the fact that acting on such a basis would undoubtedly lead to debatable moral actions, this generally meant that one had to be either stupid, or, extremely brave, or a combination of both to even entertain thoughts of harming any one of the giant’s friends. With the hands that were no more than protective shields and associated with security to the German, those very same hands were powerful enough to tear, maim and break anything that meant harm; be it man or machine. The doctor had witnessed such an event before where Mikhail had, in a rare moment of fury, almost smashed a man's head in simply because he had the gall to threaten the medical practitioner with a weapon and was about to deal a mortal wound to him.

Which left a question, an important one that had to be answered given the implications of the matter the doctor had left unresolved a good few years ago; except that he had lost all contact with the only person who would have known anything related to the incident. Truthfully, the German was not too sure himself if he wanted to know the truth of the events that had transpired during that period. Nothing that had remotely resembled good or ethical took place during those times, and while he was not about to grow a conscience, residual feelings of frustration over failure did haunt him when he did sleep after Herr Cognaher forced him to. In addition, the fact remained that the current situation of splicers were due to his discovery; if he had not found such a powerful and addictive substance, even if the civil war still happened, people would not be crazed or have abilities granted to them by splicing their genetic code with plasmids.

On seeing that its outstretched hand was still yet to be accepted, the Protector tilted its head; the action made more obvious than it would have been on a normal human as the large helmet moved tandem.

"Take my hand. We go together."

If the doctor was told that the world had ended and he was in hell reliving a nightmarish version of the world created in his sick, twisted head, he would have believed it without a second thought. A weapon designed by none other than the man who he had traveled with since the war, a protector having the same voice and saying the same lines that very person had said--there were too many things that clicked in place to be more than mere coincidence, which meant that things had been planned and set in motion on purpose. It was disconcerting, how he felt that someone was playing him like a puppet along the song and dance of someone else with no say to it at all.

The cold, apathetic and oftentimes cruel side of his personality manifested itself through the maelstrom of denial and incomprehension as a plain factual thought, a whisper that to most was callous at the very least, taking into account the implications of what had happened to his former companion. Dietrich could not help this habit of his; as much as others who had encountered him as a person, even one as decent as Dell Cognaher, found this particular trait rather unfeeling for a human. It was in his nature to have his logical thinking override emotion; as if the latter was a young child who needed protecting, the former was there to act as a barrier while it recounted facts, figures and rational thought through his head with ease like a machine.

'Well, early Protector models never had to go through the voice box modification programme...with a lot of luck, he would belong to the series that were permanently sealed into their suits by having their organs and all grafted into it...Heliges Gott, this makes me wish I paid more attention to what that other schweinhund told me about his work on the Protector programme. Pity he had to die due to an accident with an enraged test subject didn't he?'

There were many questions that he wanted to bombard the creature in front of him, most out of curiosity while a lesser part was out of residual feelings of obligation. In the end, the only word that left his lips carried the hidden message of ‘what has happened to you?’ as well as an undercurrent of an emotion that suggested remorse, but anyone who knew the man of science knew better than to take it as such.

"Mikhail?"

He despised how his voice sounded, weak, lacklustre; it was laced with uncertainty and hesitation, both of which he was never known for or have felt in his life. Yet, here he was, eyeing the thing he considered an abomination of nature since the implementation of such a programme and wondering if the person inside the suit was his former ally.

People said that life worked in cycles; even in science it was proved as such, and now…

Now, it came full circle as the person who had inadvertently created the gatherers and was as good as one himself, would be reunited with an ally who was turned into a protector for the man he once shielded with his life.


End file.
